Paroxysm
by ZimmyChild
Summary: At the Channing and Bradford Academy, opposites clash. Spike, the snarky guy who runs off fluid emotion, and Angel the pensive, if not predatorial, boy whom he must share a dormroom with. We call it the strongest hate, love.
1. Introduction

"Paroxysm"

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the rights attributed to the fantastically funderful, spastically superb show: "ANGEL"

Those belong to... Joss, yea? So... on we go.

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A bit of my own introduction:

My name is Bethany and I don't frequently take time out of my 'busy' schedule to write as many fanfics as come to my mind. However, because of my dear friend Jessica I have been persuaded into actually putting my best foot forward. I hope all goes well and I don't get half as many flames as I imagine I will. This is a Spangel fic, so don't sue me if you think the coupling is wrong or whatnot.

Lovies,

Me.

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A bit of introduction to the setting and stuff:

Now, I myself am not sure the exact time or place this how shindig takes place in. There are guns, there are cars, though they do not appear in the story often (if at all). There aren't any laptops, I doubt they have computers... they have phones and what not, and... I DO think they have cell-phones. Confusing, no? YES. As far as my mind will let me know, this story takes place at an academy type place. It's an all boys place, save for some teachers, as you will see, characters have been scooted around at my leisure to suit my pleasure but I have done my utmost to not quirk their personalities and keep them as much in character as the story will allow.

Um... that's it for now? Enjoy (PLEASE.)... smiles for all

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A bit of info about the school:

The Channing and Bradford Academy, Educational Estates for Young Men (MOUTHFUL!) is a profound example of fine schooling at its utmost an is the pride of students and teachers alike…. Kinda. There is a bit of mystery about the school itself such mysteries include:

1. How the hell do people know about it?

2. What's with the creepy coat of arms?

3. Who the hell is the headmaster?

4. What's with the strange courses?

5. Why does Angel have an accent?

And so on and so on.

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Answers:

People know about it by reputation only and you get the invites. It is very hard to get there as a first group freshman. Seeing as they would have to find you 'special' in your middle-school years.

Im not sure yet, but it does befuddle me… Maybe it'll come to me in a dream?

…I am not at liberty to say. Not like it's a big secret or something it's just... y'know.. not really important right now…

They are all of my design and so it's not 'strange' at all. In fact, as far as your concerned it's AMAZING.

…shrugs I like Irish accents giggle

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How the school is set up.

(As far as groups go)

This is the order it goes in as far as years go.

1st Freshman

1st Sophomore

1st Junior

1st Senior

2nd Freshman

2nd Sophomore

2nd Junior

2nd Senior

It is an almost all year round school with a month leave during the Christmas holidays, a month leave around Easter, and two and a half months of summer break. During these times they can in fact stay at the school, or go on home leave.

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If I think of anything else Ill add it later I guess….

Lovies,

Mechanical


	2. My Modern Philosphy

Paroxysm

Chapter One: My Modern Philosophy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the rights attributed to the fantastically funderful, spastically superb show: "ANGEL"

Those belong to... Joss, yea? So... on we go.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet."

-Juliet from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_

My Modern Philosphy

The dictionary defines philosophy as the "love and pursuit of wisdom by intellectual means and moral self-discipline" and as "the discipline comprising logic, ethics, aesthetics, metaphysics, and epistemology", however at the Channing and Bradford Academy, Educational Estates for Young Men, the course of Modern Philosophy remains a lack in the way of students. Now, the reason remains to be clearly seen, though those with (god forbid) enough time on their hands to wonder might narrow it down to two options:

1- The relatively new-fangled look on life disrupts some of the rather preserved ways of thinking at the rather preserved institute of the rather preserved and respectable among the student body.

or possibly...

2- BIG WORDS SCARE ME!

Okay, well, you get the idea. The class is held twice a day, once in the morning and an extra follow-up class during the evening (for those who actually feel like giving up some of there precious free time towards the subject). It lasts about an hour and fifteen minutes, bleeding into the 45-minute break between the first two classes of the day and the the second two; most classes last an hour.

The actual classroom itself is an interesting compilation of artwork and quotes throughout the years. Framed almost fantasy-esque artworks of Alphonse Mucha are on either side of the blackboard, along with other nameless artists showing their feelings about peace, war, sex, and drugs through their canvas as well. Swords and crossbows are hung randomly throughout the other three walls. Awards, trophies, diplomas, certificates, scrolls, and bookshelves set the 'thoughtful' mood and the general floating of dust and 'that old book smell' pervade the atmosphere. The desks are set on rows and levels. 12 or so in a row, then go up a level, another 12 or so. Your average class for your not so average student.

This would be the time and place to introduce William. A 'bad-ass' with a heart o' gold... Sorta. Through toil, strife, and snarky attitude all William managed to do was earn himself a worthy reputation and a nickname. "Though you gotta admit, Spike iza bloody awesome nickname, righ' yea?" Oh yea, and self-proclamation. The main fault with Spike is that he runs off fluid emotion and instinct. "I'm talkin' primal..., something beyond brains." His mouth is so busy moving his mind can barely keep up. At least, you know, at first glance. In truth, if he'd just give his lips a rest most people might get a glimpse of a soft-hearted young poet and, though not a brainiac, a bright kid.

I few of his friends put up a few arguments about him signing up for 'Ol' Ripper's' class, not thinking he had much of the necesarry brain power it took to hold one's own in Modern Philosophy. They were wowed though once the self-proclaimed bad-ass not only achieved amazing grades but was soon on close terms with Professor Rupert Giles, even called him Ripper in person. Spike took it all on, unphased, going through the motions. Riding easy through the class. And such easiness suited him, for he enjoyed being carefree and hated being bored. A playful smile of playful, or wicked intents usually on his face and one hand playing with his slightly curly bright blonde hair. Skin pale, but eyes of so soft a blue that they brought his odd hair and strange skin hue into an almost ethereal vision in the sunshine. Laughing, being an ass an everything he could get away with. Loose and even with the stride.

For every ying, kinda, there is a yang, kinda.

English is, in the dictionary, defined as... the language of England; by those who speak it, "What we're speaking."

The Devil is, in the bible, described (at great length) as a very very very very very bad person or "entity", if you want to be fancy.

And how the two could come together in such a seamless combination remains a mystery, except possibly to those who (God forbid) had just enough time in detention to ponder why God did NOT forbid this particular combination, felt it their duty to find out where God went wrong, or perhaps decided to lose faith in God all together. Any which way you go you still end up with the same two options:

1- The language, being the taught in the self-same nation of it's namesake, was obviously forsaken by god. And now the English, or other European, must suffer under the tyranny that is Satan Herself in the hour long class for something terrible they did in the past or perhaps it serves as a sort of penance to get into heaven later, a pergatory of sorts.

or possibly

2- I... HATE... MY...LIFE. (Which may or may not be followed by the sound of a gunshot.)

Either path, however will eventually lead you to the teacher of the 2nd Sophomores and 2nd Juniors English Division. Miss Darla. MISS Darla Elaine Montague. Never Miss Montague, rarely Darla. And Miss pronounced with such severe enunciation that the 'S's form harsh sibilance and slip from your tongue like a snake's hiss. It seemed indeed that God had forsaken them to such a fiend as this. But the Devil in all forms is a tempter, and no one would disagree here. Tight black uniform consisting of a longsleeved top, black shiny buttons up and down that most often could not stand to be fastened above a place that would seldom let slip the particular type of bra Miss Darla would be wearing... if at all. A standard black skirt, though long and almost victorian in style, always seemed to tie up the sides and (God forbid) part a teasing ammount as she sat upon her desk to converse with the class. Her golden locks pulled back tight in a bun, stray bangs fell ascew to frame her face and lips always blood red. It was impossible to read her direction, her body language confused and slowed down, like poison. Her eyes misled, their true purpose hidden behind a thin glass and stylish frames. Her smile, always a lie.

So despite the fact that Satan Herself had nestled into the schedules of a portion of the student body, had achieved an immortal type of tenure and the complaining was always accompanied by stupid laughs and sad attempts at flirting on their part. Sad attempts that SOMEHOW always led to someone in detention on matters of SOME overlooked truency or 'F's on some obscure previous tests that always seemed to JUST pop up (outta NOWHERE).

And now, readers, we find ourselves face to face with Liam. But he had not been called that since preschool, and the poor preschooler left with a black eye and an ear full of such words, that when he repeated them to his parents he had two black eyes. Everyone who knows that face finds it wise to put the name 'Angel' to it, adding a sinister twist to so heavenly a connotation. God, however did not forbid Angel from earning such a heavenly cove in Darla's heart that he was exempt from many tests, earned the highest grades, and sadly did have to spin some one on one conference time with Miss Darla. So fine were his features that it earned him the rights to 'A's. Dark were his eyes, dark was his hair, and well set into his own existence that it seemed nothing could surprise his pace and stride. His figure was almost feline in it's poise and readiness, a predator in glare and speech. Setting you up in words and the smallest placed of piece. Silent, yet, he spoke with his body, and was always thinking. And he, to the jealousy of his friends, was able to call her 'Darla' on a friendly basis. "Darla, such a heavenly name." He might cruelly interject into a lunch conversation, a faint Irish lilt on his tongue to send shivers up their spine, as airy as an Angel's kiss. With such happiness in it's dark humour that it made some question their own outlook on life. Question their modern philosophy on why God was so cruel in his blessings.

And as fate might have it both Angel and Spike had been shoved into the same dorm, by a rather unmerciful list at the beginning of the school year. It had been a rough beginning, the two had grown into an awkward friendship that two who live within the same breathing area most of the time must create. From there though, it had been an easier realtionship. Able to joke and compete, the jokes in their classes became the jokes they'd laugh at then. A competitiveness kept them like this for a fashion, fighting and laughing at the other's screw-ups and who they could mock together became the focus of any shred of relationship the two had.

"Opposites" one might say, but it's a lie you know. What works in science isn't always life. In fact opposites may want to kill each other. (Maybe that's why + and - work... maybe they're really biting each other as hard as they can waiting for the other to give in, and + and + are just too shy to admit their similarities, so they go out of their way to avoid the other.) Sometimes the opposites created such a harsh disruptance in thier lives that periods of silence would fall between them and living with the other became like living with a fly on the wall you just can't seem to care enough about to confront (WITH A FLY-SWATTER! muahaha). Instances when perhaps Darla would come to tutor Angel in private and Spike himself would be 'inuendo'-ed into leaving eventually out of sheer embarassment or distaste. Or when the two would fight for days on end about something trivial and Spike would end up being correct, and Angel would merely cease to talk to Spike. Not out of a matter of pride, but as a trap, waiting until Spike couldn't stand it anymore and admit defeat in some other. Playing the fool, perhaps, to make Angel laugh.

And so became their order in chaos, for as hectic as living with either may have been there was always the pattern.

'My Modern Philosophy...' read the center of the top of the page in elegant cursive. So snappy a title, yet there was nothing beneath.

Spike cleared his throat and tried it out, "My modern philosophy!" He, being alone in the room, said the title again and again in various different styles, accents (differing from his own british). "Bloody brilliant." He said in sarcasm, slamming his head onto the desk in frustration. "...Ow." He sat at one of the small desks in the room, this one the only affixed with a mirror. It was closest to his bed on his side of the room (farther from the window though) and so it had been silently accepted that this was 'Spike's Desk'. Spike lifted his head, the wet ink from the quill he had been using stuck to his head and he looked into the mirror, faced with the same mocking title, completely legible in his nice handwriting and able to read in the mirror. "My Modern Philosophy," he began to laugh at himself over the rediculousness of it all. He picked his quill back up which had been resting in it's ink bottle, and after leaking some of the excess ink over the edge of the glass bottle back with rest, he began to form new words on the page.

'The world at one point or another felt the philosophy was something so sacred that it must be bottled up and contemplated over. That someone, Plato, Aristotle, Jesós Christo, must be as cryptic as possible in discovering the meaning of life. Because, apparently, to them it's it always hidden in the most obvious of phrases. Is there order in chaos? Hell if I know. Hell if I care. My Modern Philosophy is plain, as plain as if... as if it were written on my forhead in reverse. So that you might need a mirror, a little self-reflection to understand it, but that's all. Philosophy has changed, evolved with us. We're still cavemen, cavemen in fancy suits and ties, and one day we'll be cavemen in space! Hell if that changes anything. Hell if God will let us. But that's all the thought it takes. God didn't stuff the meaning of life into the arse of a rabbit and send us to examine and argue about it. There's a meaning to everything nowadays. Meaning behind the apple, behind a foot, behind a ribbon, a card, a kiss, a poem. All these make up life. How can life have a meaning then? If rabbit with the meaning of life stuffed up it's arse went out and had trillions of babies, all with their own outlook on life, with their on little piece of the world and human thought and sanity shoved up their arses... Well I ask, How can we ever hope to find it? Look not to the skies for your answers, because God's laughing at you.

Self reflection! Self reflection and time! Times have changed my friend, since the days in which you could teach a man to fish and allow him to eat for a lifetime. Times have changed since the meaning of your name clearly defined who you were. What's in a name, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, love. And yea it would, but it's identity would have changed in some small part. Nowadays, all you have in this sea of lies is your name. And if you lose that, or someone takes it away, they take away your own little piece of truth, your own little piece of the world, shoved up your arse as a babe. Your mum looked down and gave you that, because her mum gave her that as right as God gave man his name and woman hers, as right as god gave them Eden as their identity, and they spoiled it. They took away their true names and after, what did they have? What was all God had left? They had their names, and their world, and their right on it, as right is the right of a rose to grow there.

So Romeo, Romeo, fuck you Romeo, and compare me not to the sun, because I'm not the sun. Im a million names and they're all me. As true as those that gave me the name, and Ill not deny that. If there is anything Ill not deny it's the name that other's have given me, because it was their acceptance of me in hate and love. It was them giving me right to shadow and light, in their mind, in their little piece of their inner world, so far shoved up their arse they've forgotten what's in a name.They forgot the meaning so they look for it in the skies and hope to find it up some rabbit hole or in thinking a hell of a lot about why the sun is yellow. And when they're too embarassed to admit how little a ways they've gone along, they hide it in cryptic messages.'

Spike paused in his writing to look it over and laugh, the truth of a moment having been written on the page. What he had spent 5 minutes just letting his hand write what it wanted. "It makes no sense... but that's the truth." He had pressed one hand to his head as a prop on the desk as he had been writing and it had smeared the black ink all along the cuff of his sleeve, which had been as long as to reach past his wrists and to knuckles. He grimaced and stood, walking to his wardrobe along the wall, almost side by side to Angel's. From it pervaded a tangible sweet smell. The smell of roses, one he could quickly identify with Satan Herself. She had probably left some prefumed article of clothing here by accident. "An innocent sock, prolly." Spike mused, but he laughed on the inside. _People don't perfume their socks now do they?_ He unbuttoned his plain white long-sleeved button up shirt. And tossed it to the ground, withdrawing from the small hanging pole inside the wardrobe a fresh one.

Here we have a brief moment to further describe Spike and a bit of the school. The school, as a proper and preserved academy should, required a specific uniform be worn.

-White button up dress-shirt. Collar. Cotton. One pocket near the heart.

-Black Dress pants. One Zipper. One Button. Two pockets in the front. Two pockets in the rear.

-Tie. No clip-ons. Blue for 1st Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors. Black for 2nd Freshmen... etc. etc.

-Black Dress shoes. Shined please.

-Socks. Always wear socks. We dont care what kind, just wear them please.

-Black blazer. One or two true buttons, 4 buttons total.

-A crest that showed you as a Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, or Senior. Outlined in blue for 1st groups, black for 2nd.

The crest must be either on your blazer, your shirt-pocket, or your backpack.

And Spike, being the 'free spirit' that he be, attempts to be as casual as possible with this code. Usually never wears the blazer, and keeps his crest on his backpack. 'Sz' in the center of the school's coat of arms. The would-be traditional Unicorn and Lion, save the horn had been switched and the lion bore the only weapon the horse had. The horse, in all it's bare being fought back none the less, a proud mare against the horned lion who's claws spelled it's death.

Spike began to button up the front, his chest in amazing shape for someone one might either take as a lazy ass-hole or possibly a book-worm. Interesting huh? The reason for so nice a shape, though, will be explained later. A few tiny line-scars bedeck his chest as tiny pink indentations on his pale flesh. He grumbles as he realized he missed a sodding button and redoes the set. He manages to finish as Angel doesn't bother to knock and casually strides in, quiet, and controlled in his temper as always. "You're out early," Spike says nonchalantly, for he had woken up early to finish the Modern Philosophy assignment due that day.

"MMmm," Angel stretched his arms up and over his head, yawning close-mouthed, "Yea, checkin' out the horses, makin' sure that everythin's in order."

"Hm? Order?" Spike asked, half caring just wanting to talk.

"Yea, y'see, you get a lot of green-riders out there. Don' know what their doin' and we got the new horses too yea?"

"...Y-yea?" Spike said unassuredly, not having signed up for the hunting class, finding it barbaric.

"Yea. Anyway, we get the young horses out there, and someone 'ears a leaf pop underfoot and they start shootin' there arrows, left. right. up. down. Horse gets spooked cus he's spooked and horse goes flyin'!" Angel grinned wickedly as he did a swoop with his arm and hand to show a horse 'flyin' off. "Rider falls off, breaks his bones, outta there!" Spike raised an eyebrow.

"Serves him right." Spike smiled too, though for other reasons. "S'not right to shoot the animals for sport."

"Psshh. Only the green ones'll do that! Idiots, miss half-a-time too!" Angel it seemed was actually talking quite a lot. "Anyway, Wesley get out there-"

"NO WAY! Head boy!" Spike turned quickly, face brightened, "Mr. Ponce himself?" Angel held up a hand.

"Lemme finish!" Spike shut his mouth but was utterly beyond excited, "Anyway, Mr. Price his own self gets out there on a horse and sees a falcon rush outta nowhere at him! And he goes tumbling back cus he jerked the reigns! And the horse!" He did another swoop with his arm. "Anyways, Wesley hits the ground and breaks his arm on a root, horse snapped it his self!" Spike fell back on the bed laughing his ass off. Angel smiled, satisfied, laughing too.

Abruptly there came a knock at the door.

"Keep it down in there gentlemen, that is no way for young connoisseurs of knowledge and wisdome to behave in such a place as... as this place." The voice belonged to that of Wesley himself and did not seemed pained at all. In fact headboy had made his rounds as usual, making sure everything was ship-shape.

"You were lying again huh?" Spike looked at Angel wuickly, quicking an eyebrow a puzzled grin on his face.

"Your fault for believin' it. I swear you're such an idiot, Spike."

"I said keep it down! I may be forced to excercise drastic measures!" Once again Wesley's voice came muffled from beyond the door.

What little argument that was about to rise was quickly effaced by Wesley's rediculous threats and sent them both into bouts of crippling laughter.

"V-very well! But I warn you! There is now a.. a CHECK. In my notebook next to both of your names... Blackguards and miscreants!" Wesley 'hmph'-ed proudly and they could hear him walk off in the pause of their laughter before they laughed again.

"Golly-gee, Angel, think he kisses his mum with that mouth?" Spike took a breath from laughing on the bed and regained composure.

"That'd be a little too much action for our dear head-boy, doncha think? Get him a little too excited."

"Speakin of which... Fraternizing with the teachers again are we Angel?" There was added laughter from them both, though the question was never answered, in spite of the casual way Spike had brought it up.

After a while their laughs faded and silent preperations for the morning began and Spike moved back to his desk to attempt to finish his paper.

End Chapter One.

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God! I am sooo sorry! Tha must have been the most boring thing you, if there is a you there, have ever read. I plan to make it more exciting. DEATH! DRAMA! ROMANCE! All that crap that people like. (not really) I wrote this quickly, one big rush, so forgive the typos and shtuff. This is my first true fanfic by myself so Im hoping it'll be as fun as it sounds ... ;; Anyway... Thanks for your time.

Lovies,

Mechanical

PS: Just to inform: The quotes I may or may not put at the tops of chapters are NOT because I like them, but because the will have something to do with that particular chapter. For example, this chapter's quote. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. I think it is silly, but it's also simple and to the point and ya.. yada yada yada. In fact... I wouldnt exactly recomment _Romeo and Juliet _to anyone looking to enjoy Shakespeare. He HAS written better! Don't believe the press! Defy the man! DEFY HIM! dances

Special thanks to:

Jessica (she's prolly gonna hate my guts for the R&J references ehehe..hehe..he...)

This girl is awesome like a possum, and without her this story would have worse dialogue and not exist. I mean... really. It wouldn't.


	3. Token of My Appreciation

Chapter Two, Token of My Appreciation

Disclaimer: (It hasn't changed; click to first or second section)

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Token of My Appreciation

Spike's paper ended curiously, but not so unintelligible that no one could follow.

'Maybe Alice had the write idea, falling down the rabbit hole. But the rabbit, poor bloke, seemed more a human in the way of life than anything comparitively animal, our confusing way of thought spun his head so loose that he needed to weight it to the chain of a pocket watch to keep it from falling off... Time controls all of our lives I suppose, for we only let ourselves see as big a picture as time will allow for the moment.'

That was something Angel and he had in common, animal instinct. With Spike it was 'Go! Go! Go!', and if it feels good, then do it god dammit. Angel, however had the prowess of a looming predator, patient as an aged cat with the eyes of a hawk. Patience, patience. For him, all of life was clock, and for Angel, in particular, he saw everyone's little clock. For Angel, he controlled that clock, and it was his exclusive and god-ordained right to rule over it. He had the knowledge that all things come to those who wait, and what goes around; comes around. He watched that clock, on which instead of numbers it had little events. He knew when your time would come, oh yes he knew, but he never jumped the gun. Never never never ever.

"Curioser and curiouser," Spike mused as he leaned back in his chair, letting the back to legs of it support his weight as he rested his feet on his desk.

"Hm." Angel said, uninterested from his bed. He had layed himself out comfortabley and was examining a large, thick, leather glove it would seem. He frowned at the scratches and gashes in the tough material, wondering how he would repair it. After all, it wasn't standard issue and it had been a bitch to buy.

Spike took Angel's mutter of response as the go ahead to show what he meant, "Maybe Alice had the right idea falling down the rabbit hole," he looked up hoping to see the smallest glimmer of amusement or interest on Angel's face, but was instead greeted by a glove flying at his face. It head head on, the hard buckles, straps, and hard torn pieces scratching face as he lost his balance in his chair and hit the ground.

"Don't start reading your poetry again," Angel snorted now looking out the window near his bed.

"Sod off! It wasn't poetry, if you had a mind at all you'd know that!" Spike was standing up painfully, glaring at Angel first who didn't respond, then at his own reflection. One of the buckles had cut deep into his left eyebrow, and was beginning to bubble with blood, veering past his eye and down the side of his face. "Jesus, Angel! Throw a knife next time!" He stumbled over the chair to get a better look at the wound in the mirror, he glanced up noticing that he hadn't cleaned the ink off from earlier that morning. "Mrrynddern Philosphy" was what it now read. "Fuck you." He muttered one hand running through his hair as a bad habit as he wondered how he would go about getting a bandaid or something. It hurt, it really did, his pride most of all. Angel hadn't listened at all probably, just noted he was using a dictating voice and decided he preferred the silence. _I thought it was some bloody good work..._ He sighed as he wiped the blood from his eyebrow and, without anywhere else to put it, merely licked it off his finger.

"Don't go poutin' now," Angel almost laughed from the other side of the room, enjoying how he had tampered with time in his own special way. It would scar, a little mark on the clock of Spike's life, a little 'Angel Waz Here' in a corner of his mind every time he looked at his pretty face in the mirror. "Good aim, yea?" He had stood up and walked over to the vanity at which Spike pondered his wound. Spike said nothing, this only caused Angel to start laughing. Knowing that for Spike to stop talking for more than a minute he must be pissed as hell. Angel lived for cause and effect, he enjoyed to toy with people. He was a bad bad boy. He stuck his thumb in his mouth as he stood by Spike now, directly to the side of him in the mirror. Spike was his favorite at the time, for some reason it was he in particular whom he desired to effect the most. "Not much fun roomin with a baby, now is it?"

"You're the childish one!" Spike's temper finally broke, swinging to face him, blood trickling again from the wound. Angel removed his thumb from his mouth and pressed it on the end of the little stream and drug it up Spike's cheek to his gash, catching all the red that had been spilt. Spike froze, half grossed out and half just too surprised to react as Angel popped his thumb back in his mouth and plopped down on Spike's bed as a seat.

"It's mine anyway, I earned I think. Damn good shot."

"You... YOU! You're just SICK." Spike had lept back pressing one hand to his face wiping off where a bit of Angel's spit had stuck to his cheeks. "You're a freak!"

"Consider it a token of your appreciation." Angel was laughing hard now, "Hm?"

"Appreciation for WHAT?" Spike roared charging forward, aiming a punch at Angel's stomach, "Don't bloody rip a piece of my flesh off and act all casual!" Angel caught the punch barely but stood from where he had sat on Spike's bed to glare at his current enemy.

"You don't think I can take you?" Angel's dark eyes took him on, causing Spike's arm to lose a bit of strength in the grip. "You don't think I could dislocate your shoulder right now?" Angel's happy-go-lucky mood had taken a perverse and dark switch (not that it wasn't perverse before oo;)...

"I-" Spike began to say, still fierce, drawing back his other arm for a punch.

"Try me!" Angel spat pushing him back, Spike tripped back a few times before hitting the chair that he hadn't picked up earlier and fell over it.

Spike looked up, eyes filled with confusion and a tiny hint of curiosity.

Angel seemed a little affected by his expression and a casual smile reappeared on his face, "Sorry," he really meant it and you could tell by how quietly he said, "Have a sense of humour. Not right for one of us to fall on our arse and not laugh!" Spike forced a few chuckles out, but the look remained. _Who the hell am I rooming with?_ "Stop," Angel said, a strange look on his face, "Just stop with the stupid looks already," he thrust out his hand for Spike to grab. Spike took it and stood up, wiping away the blood that had run anew down the side of his face.

"S'alright I guess, a little warning next time. Didn't know you had a short fuse n'all." Spike laughed, a grin once again on his face. It wasn't like him to dwell in his own past for very long. Even the cut had stopped hurting so it seemed to matter less that he wipe it clean every few seconds.

Angel joined with Spike's carefree laughter, his a little more forced. Eyes watching his recent pray with curiousity. Envious of Spike's ability to forgive and forget mayhap? But it was not in Angel's character to be envious, not in his character at all...

Spike fixed the chair, running a hand through his hair, once again reminded that there was still ink there, ink and blood. "Gotta get this cleaned up," he frowned, sitting down, not moving from the spot, "... Eventually." He looked in the mirror, yet again, "Bloody hell!" There was a line of red and black, the red turning pink, in his radioactive messy hair.

"Get it done on the way to class," Angel offered, walking to retrieve his tie from his wardrobe. There was a bit of scuffling in the room next door. "Oh dear... he's up." Spike made a frustrated groan from the desk.

"He means well..." Spike said helplessly, digging out a bit of pity for the geeky is not pathetic boy next door.

"Psshh." Angel ended that argument well enough with Spike grinning at his vanity.

"Alright alright, yea." He waved his hands over his head lazilly, one once again finding it's way through his bright blonde locks. Angel brushed through his hair quickly, it was long for a boy, just long enough to tie back into a low rat-tail with a bit of black ribbon, bow turned under the hair. Angel was a vain man and liked to look his best, project himself as it were, but he never excentuated something that wasn't there, he was not a fan of that. He knew he was good looking and did his best to flaunt it.

"Hm." Spike gazed at his own sloppy mess of slightly curly hair that had been disarrayed by his own hands many times during the morning. He usually brushed it all back and used what ever means necesarry to keep it like that, a slick gel look. But this morning he had nothing to give it that appearance and it fell in a sloppy mop about his face. Angel almost started laughing again when he saw Spike's own vanity show through for a moment. _That's rare._

"Here," said Angel with a most serious look on his face as he walked over to Spike as if he might kill him at any moment. But instead he picked up a brush that had fallen on the floor by the desk and began to pull it through Spike's hair. It would have been awkward if Angel didn't have the 'if you move, god dammit, I'll kill ya' look on his face. That made it okay. _I guess_, Spike thought, still slightly upset by it. Angel, having mastered the art of styling his own hair, was able to style Spike's simply. Pulled back, and some bangs from the front fell forward, all the waves brushed out somehow by the 'magical' rounded brush.

"Wwwoooooowwww," came a muffled voice from somewhere and Spike jerked in his seat, standing up quickly, face turning red.

"Jesus!" he cried as he glared at where the wall, where the sound had come from. Angel too was quickly looking around the wall.

"ANDREW!" He cried at the top of his lungs. There was a yelp and crash from the other side of the wall.

"I thought we filled up all the holes he had drilled in the wall!" Spike excaimed, angered at the situation.

"Guess he got more, doesn't exactly respond to threats like a normal person." Angel growled.

"He's NOT NORMAL!"

"It's... It's for a story I'm writing! An Epic! A tale of two heros!... Creative writing, no uh PSYCHOLOGY!" Cried the muffled, high-pitched voice from the other side of the wall. There was a few short footsteps, the opening of a door, a few more and finally Andrew knocked on their door. Spike sighed gruffly and walked to the door, opening without sparing a glance to the visitor as he returned to his chair. "You see, it wasn't my fault this time. In fact the hole was there by accident, and I was doing as you said, covering them up with such astounding posters... Like," he paused for a moment, "Like a MOVIE poster. So I decided to put it up there and wouldn't you know it, I saw you and I just thought wow." Spike interjected...

"You _said_ wow."

Andrew paused, looking for side to side momentarilly, "Well I had obviously hoped you had not heard me, but your wondrous ears are quite keen my friend, quite keen indeed." She licked his lips unassuredly, looking from Angel's face with it's confused but nonbelieving and unmoved face, to Spike with an 'Im trying really hard not to smile' look on his lips and one eye brow quirked high. Andrew sought for more, but found he was a lack in the way of 'really amazing' lies, "...Please don't kill me."

"We need to go to class," Spike spoke, as calmly as he could. "Not a word, Andrew."

"Not a word, Spike," Andrew smiled gleefully, almost fluttering in joy.

"And about the holes-" Angel said cautiously.

"Plaster! Yup. Got it allll taken care of. Smooth, like." He did a sweeping motion with his hands and a mini-boogie, "Real smooth."

"Andrew." Spike said, the laughter almost bubbling to the surface, his embarassment already evaporating into the morning.

"Right. Gone," he made a clicking noise with his mouth and pointed at the both, "Check ya later." Walking out the door and almost stumbling upon Headboy.

"Morning, Andrew, aren't we chipper today?" Andrew only nodding vigorously, visions of Spike with bows in his hair flaoting about recklessly in his head, Angel with brush in hand. "Musn't be late for class... Hurry along." Wesley pulled out a pocket watch and let his fingers count down from five.

"Late for-"

The bell rang as Wesley's fingers disappeared into a fist, and Wesley smiled satisfied with himself.

"Right on time, never misses a second, does she?" Wesley sighed.

"Almost like instinct there, like a snake, hunting down his prey! Except, not as... exciting," Andrew said, over-casually, "Yup, that's uh, pretty cool there Wes."

"That's Wesley," Wesley corrected, the same self-satisfied smirk across his face.

"Wesley." Andrew added nervously, "Well I'm gone," he started walking off before turning around and doing the click and point again, "Check ya later."

Wesley remained baffled, before shaking the image out of his mind, he turned to look back into Angel and Spike's dorm, only to find it bare. "Well... just as well, my scolding does little in the end for those children. It's a shame they do not listen to the voice of reason..."

A ways down the hall Spike and Angel laughed as they headed to their first class together.

"Hangon a sec," Angel said pausing, to submerse his thumb in water from the nearby water fountain, "You look retarded."

"Stop it!" Spike squirmed as Angel wiped away the ink, "I can do it MYSELF." Spike pushed him away.

"Hold still!"

"What are you, my mother?"

"What are you five?" There were a few heated moments of silence as Spike let the fountain spurt directly onto his forhead as he scrubbed it off.

"Did I get it all?" Spike shrugged, adjusting to the weight of his brown leather messenger-style backpack.

"Yea sure, come on. Darla might scold us," Angel smiled, not bothering to mention that Spike had missed the large streaks of pink and black in his hair.

"Darla." Spike said noncommental, but angry none the less. "MISS Darla." He pronounced loudly, ironically. "Missss Darla..."

"Shut up," Angel said rolling his eyes.

"Daaaarla." Spike began whispering as they exitted the dormhouse and headed towards the school buildings. "Darla Darla Darla DARLA. DARLA. darla. daaarla. D-d-darla! "

"I said SHUT UP," Angel barked.

"Make me!" Spike stuck his tongue out and started running.

Fin...De Chapitre Deux

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Chapter two is done! I appreciate my reviews, and dont worry there will be story and plot unfolding soon! Explanation POINT.

Lovies,

Zimmy

Once again, couldn't have done it without you Jessica!


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